Jigsaw
by butterflymind
Summary: Losing him seemed like a series of random events, finding him meant unravelling the connections. Slash David/Greg.
1. Before

**Author note:** The parts of this are written to be individual stories/vignettes that come together to tell one story. Each one also has some sort of theme to the writing. This is sort of an experiment for me, so I hope it works. I am not a Doctor, Lawyer, Police officer, Materials Chemist or American. I've researched this fic as best I could and relied somewhat on artistic license, but please forgive any errors.

Fifteen years before, they had still been at home. The image of it had grown rosy in his mind with time and distance, he no longer remembered the leaking roof and the way the mildew crawled up the walls, the rusty chain link fence and the broken window. Emotion had seeped into the image he held in his memory, given it warmth and rich colours, the smiling face of his mother, the scent of his father's cigarettes permanently impregnated into the furniture and the walls. It was linked forever to lullabies and stories, candy bars and Christmases, although his memories of any specific event that happened there were hazy and elusive, shying away from him every time he tried to touch them.

Five years before, they had left home forever. You shouldn't leave home at twelve, or at fourteen. But they got as little say in that as they had had in losing their parents, just another random act of reality that tore through their lives like a tornado and destroyed everything in its path. They bounced around the foster system, from family to family and home to home. He'd always been smart, smart enough to realise that no one wanted teenagers with what the state politely termed as 'problems', a word they wore around their necks like a tag that announced them as unloveable. He retreated into his own world, roaming whatever neighbourhood he was living in at the time, scavenging broken objects and fixing them, making them work again. He didn't want them, just the momentary thrill of pleasure in making order out of chaos. Some of his foster parents yelled at him for it, some tried to restrain his liberty; some just gave him a sad eyed smile of comprehension that made his skin crawl. Only his brother understood and let him be, catching him sometimes in a rough one armed hug when he knew no one was looking, praising his smart, strange little brother. Somehow he always knew where to find him, even when they were separated.

Two years before, he'd found out how smart his brother was. Smart in a way he could never be, smart with people, not objects, but smart enough not to be caught. His brother had been reluctant to allow him into his world, shaken him and told him he was destined for better things. But at that he had rolled his eyes, looked around the dimly lit room in the latest home, the cracks in the plaster and the water seeping under the sill. They weren't bad people, most weren't. But foster care didn't pay for better things and they both knew it. He'd let him in reluctantly, but he'd let him in nonetheless. Partly because he loved him but mostly because he needed him to do the things he couldn't, the things that involved machines and computers and sensors and alarms. He'd been amazed at the people who listened to his brother, who respected him, and he craved having that respect like a starving man.

One year before, he'd gained that respect with a brutality he never wished for. But when his brother was gone they needed someone to look up to and for all he was the smart, strange little brother, he was still the closest thing they had. He'd found the role easier to fill than he imagined he would, feeling his brother's hand guiding him as he'd once dreamed he felt his parents. He too was smart enough not to be caught, to leave little damage and little trail. He prospered.

One month before, it was an easy job. He'd been told about this place, about the easily disabled alarm, of the overconfidence of the owners in their electronic and mechanical protection, confident enough not to leave anything as expensive as a human in place to guard it. It was routine, another take from a world that never seemed to learn its lesson.

One hour before, the routine had changed. An unexpected rainstorm had begun a cascade of unfortunate events. The alarm system had been more complicated than he had anticipated, the extra time made the others more edgy, some tapping the guns they had brought in belt holsters, even though he kept telling them they wouldn't need them. They were all creatures of habit, two steps up from street thugs. Even if they did respect him they did not trust him that much.

One minute before, the getaway driver was waiting. He was chewing his fingernails in the driver's seat and apparently intent on working his way down to the bone when they piled in with half of what they had come for, frustrated and unsettled. Somebody barked at him to move and he threw the car into reverse, bouncing them around the inside the car as they started rapidly backwards. The bump was sudden and for a wild second he wondered how he could have missed such a sharp lump in the tarmac when they were running to the car. Then the headlights caught an object and he knew even before his brain had fully processed its human shape.

"Shit." The word was a sudden slice through a shocked silence. He began to take in details, a security guards uniform and a large torch that had rolled away from the body. He wondered if he had missed something, if the man had been alerted by some other silent alarm he hadn't seen. He got his answer a second later when he heard the distant wail of sirens. In a moment his brain ran through every detail of the job; the sloppiness, the frustration, the evidence they had left behind.

"We have to go." His own voice sounded strange in his ears.

"He might still be alive." He didn't even notice who had spoken. The… thing in the road didn't look alive, or maybe he just didn't want to see it as anything that was ever living.

"No way." He tapped the driver. "Go." The man in his nervousness floored the accelerator and the car shot forward, with a second sickening bump.

"Well he isn't now." Someone said and there was almost some nervous laughter. He felt light-headed, trying hard to adjust to this new reality. The word 'murderer' kept buzzing around his mind, making it hard to think. They would assume that, especially now, even if they had never meant it. They would assume and that would be it, game over. A sudden thought struck him and he tapped the driver again.

"Stop." He said and the driver shot him a look of disbelief.

"What?"

"Stop." There was a sudden halt. He tapped two of his companions. "Come on." He said opening the door. The two looked between themselves as if asking each other if they both thought he was crazy.

"Where are we going?" One asked.

"We left some things; we need to get them back."

"Get them back?" The other parroted, incredulous.

"Unless you want what just happened to come back on you." He replied, his voice taking on a low dangerous tone he barely recognised. They followed and he slammed the door behind them, watching the car speed away. By now there would be cops and CSI's and the whole damn travelling show, but they could wait. Until everything was collected and packaged and ready to go, they could wait.


	2. This morning

This morning, he had been laughing at him for being a cliché. They were both exhausted by the time they got home, both sweating and aching and longing for bed. Yet he insisted on tidying the lounge first, rescuing the cushions from under the coffee table and in front of the TV, picking up Greg's shredded newspaper and putting it in the trash, all the while muttering about boyfriends and chimpanzee enclosures. Greg giggled at him whilst he was washing up, standing behind him and slipping his arms around and into the soapy water, resting his head on his shoulder so he could see what he was hindering. Eventually David threw the dishtowel at him and ordered him to be useful or be absent. Obediently he dried dishes, limiting his chuckles and mutters of 'stereotype' to every other plate.

It took an hour to get to bed, he could have gone alone but it was so rare for them to be home at the same time that he refused to waste the opportunity. He was too tired to think, too tired to move and too tired to complain about cold feet and the share of the duvet. He floated between sleep and wakefulness, warm and contented by the messages of familiarity that flowed from all his senses. David was already asleep, cocooning himself in the bedclothes with his fists clenched around them like a child, grunting when Greg tried to reclaim some for himself. Finally he gave up and curled himself around David's sleeping form, shutting out the world as the curtains shut out the daylight from the room.

* * *

By the afternoon he was awake and unmoving, although Dave slept on as he always did. Greg just slept less, he always had done, less than almost anyone else he knew. He could read, get up and watch TV or go for a walk, which was what he would usually do with this hour of stolen time. But today the compulsion was strong just to stay here, to watch over him as he was sleeping. The thought tickled the back of his mind, like the feelings his Nana had always told him were the family talent coming through him. The thought made him shiver in the warm room and he discarded it, filing it with the folk tales he would only believe when it suited him. Still he propped himself on one elbow and watched him sleep, counting his even breaths and barely thinking at all.

An hour later and David finally struggled into wakefulness, blearily rubbing his eyes and blinking at him like a mole flushed into the sunlight. Greg laughed at him again, gentle affectionate laughter as he stroked his short hair with one hand. The other was surreptitiously heading lower, until David caught it and held it between his own.

"We don't have time." He murmured, bringing the hand to his lips and kissing it before he released it to its rightful owner.

"I think you're giving yourself too much credit." Greg replied. He made another half hearted attempt to tackle him but David fended him off easily, rolling them until he was on top, straddling Greg's waist.

"Shower, food, work." He said, kissing Greg's nose and then rising swiftly to head towards the bathroom.

"Spoilsport." Greg grouched loudly, reluctantly getting up himself. David appeared around the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand.

"Fine. Shower, food, work, sex. Happy?" Greg flashed him a grin.

"Since when have I ever worked to a schedule?" He asked and moved quickly across the room and through the bathroom door before David could close it again.

* * *

By the evening, Greg was standing at a crime scene in the pouring rain. He rubbed his hand across his face to try and remove the droplets of water that were falling into his eyes and squared his shoulders against the deluge. Rain was the worst thing for evidence, except possibly snow. Rain washed the evidence away or mixed it together, making the certain uncertain and obscuring the probable. Greg sighed; he was starting to sound like Grissom, even inside his own head. At least the body had been moved, the coroner had taken it half an hour ago back to the dry of the morgue, smiling almost apologetically as he ducked into his car out of the deluge. Looking up, Greg saw another car was pulling up, it had familiar plates and a familiar person sitting grumpily behind the wheel.

"Hey." Greg said as David got out of the car, drawing his coat around him for all the flimsy protection it offered against the rain.

"Hello." He was already practically growling.

"What are you doing here?" David shrugged his shoulders, the rain was already dripping down his hair into his eyes and Greg had to resist the urge to wipe it away, a pleasant but uncomfortable reminder of the shower.

"Grissom sent for a trace analysis expert, something to do with a melted co-polymer and a forty foot concrete pole." Through his irritation Greg could hear a note of pride at being the one Grissom had asked for. He struggled against his own amusement and irritation, too used to David's hero-worship to let it bother him. But that didn't mean he would let the opportunity to tease him pass.

"So you really will walk through a flood for that man." He grinned and David narrowed his eyes.

"Jealousy's an ugly thing Sanders." He replied, moving to step round him.

"I'm not jealous. I know you could never give up my charm." Greg smiled at him and David gave a half smile back.

"You pay half the mortgage, your charm is contractual." He said. Greg still stood in his path. "Any chance I might be allowed to do my work? So I can get out of here before the Ark arrives?" Greg stepped back with an exaggerated gesture.

"See you later, honey." He whispered to him as he passed. David narrowed his eyes at him again, but said nothing.

Within the hour the task was rapidly deteriorating from difficult to hopeless. The rain kept coming, in great sheets that swept across the sky and obscured everything. No-one could remember the last time it had rained this much and Greg could almost see the evidence disappearing into the storm drains. He'd lost sight of David some time ago, concentrating on his work and oblivious to the world until Grissom tapped him on the shoulder and caused him, to his slight embarrassment, to jump.

"We're having a meeting." Grissom had to shout to be heard over the wind and gestured for Greg to follow him. He led to him to a shop front with the meagre shelter of a canopy that made it at least relatively dry. Nick and Sara smiled at him as he joined them, David, looking bedraggled and out of place, didn't raise his eyes. Grissom spoke, punctuated by the flapping canopy and drumming rain.

"We need to speed it up." He said, gesturing towards the scene. "Or the rain will leave us nothing to work with." Nick shrugged.

"We're going as fast as we can. I've got a truck full of wet evidence I need to analyse before it deteriorates, but I can't leave to take it back to the lab." Grissom nodded and looked as Sara

"You?" He asked.

"Same problem." She replied. "Hodges got the trace from the pole inside, but I can't work as fast as the rain out here." Greg just shrugged when Grissom turned to him; they all knew what the issue was.

"Hodges, can you take the evidence truck back to the lab?" David almost jumped when he was suddenly addressed.

"Uh sure." He sounded eager but torn, wanting to do his bosses bidding. "But my car's already here…"

"I can take it back." Greg jumped in and gave David a sly smile. Dave's car was his pride and joy; he gripped the dashboard like a security blanket every time he let Greg drive it, which was as rarely as he could possibly manage.

"Umm…" David hesitated.

"Good." Grissom cut across him before he had a chance to speak again. "Then we can concentrate on the scene. Nick, we're going to have to move closer to the shelter of these shops where things might be better preserved…" Grissom was still talking but Greg's attention was caught by the looks Dave was shooting him. There was going to be hell to pay when he got home but he didn't care. When the meeting broke up David passed him, dropping the keys into his waiting hand.

"Break it and I break you." He growled.

"Promises, promises." Greg replied, smiling.

* * *

By what he supposed was technically the morning, Greg wasn't sure if he should be furious or terrified. He didn't know who he should be directing those emotions at either, so he hopped nervously from foot to foot; clutching the towel he had been drying his hair with when he got the news. It had taken them a ridiculously long time to tell him. He'd already been at his locker, searching for dry clothes, when Nick had appeared in the doorway and told him the car hadn't arrived yet. He remembered being momentarily confused, trying to work out what Nick was talking about, and then almost shutting his hand in the door of his locker as he banged it closed. Nick was saying something, pointing out that Hodges could have just stopped off, or got lost, or found some mysterious traffic jam that somehow they had missed. He could have been saying anything, Greg's brain had ceased to process anything whilst it tried to control the wild ideas the first piece of information had seeded. He blinked slowly, trying to drag himself back to reality even if he really didn't want to go.

"Has he called in? He should have been back an hour ago." Nick shook his head reluctantly, as if that was a piece of information he didn't want to reveal.

"Dispatch hasn't heard from the Denali since Grissom told them it was leaving the scene. But there's no guarantee he would radio in, he's not a C.S.I."

"Nah he'd radio. Or at least call the lab." Greg's eyes were darting around the room, noticing that the colours seemed to be more vibrant, the angles sharper, as if the world was already taking on a nightmarish quality. He sat down heavily on the bench and Nick sat down beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"We don't know anything yet." He said in a soft voice. "Don't panic too early, ok?" The shudder that went through Greg caught him by surprise and Nick pulled him into a proper hug, patting him on the back like a child. Greg stilled, listening to Nick's heartbeat thumping soundly in his chest and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It took a second for him to realise that he had felt Nick's head move and that he was looking up, past Greg. He opened his eyes and turned his own head to follow Nick's gaze. Catherine was standing in the doorway and she seemed to be trying to tell Nick something without him seeing. He sat up, moving out of Nick's embrace.

"What's happened?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears, taut and panicked. Catherine sighed and glanced at Nick who nodded his head.

"Brass just got a report of a traffic collision out near Henderson. The officer who responded just reported that the vehicle involved is registered to C.S.I. It was the one Hodges was driving."

"Is he ok? Was he injured?" Greg's voice was rising but he couldn't help it. He felt another option on his tongue but left it unsaid in case it made it real. Catherine shrugged almost hopelessly.

"He wasn't there. The vehicle was abandoned."

"What?" Nick spoke for the first time.

"They said it looked like there might have been a struggle. We'll know more when we get out there." Nick rose and Greg followed suit, but Catherine shook her head gently.

"You can't Greg, you know that." He felt a sudden stab of anger that whited out the panic for a second.

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here on my ass while he could be dying somewhere?" He moved towards Catherine while he was speaking and she closed the gap between them, holding his arms like an unruly child and making him look at her.

"I know how hard this is." She said firmly. "Of everyone here, you know I know how hard this is." Her hands rubbed his arms soothingly. "But if this is going to count you have to let us do it." He nodded, biting his lower lip and feeling suddenly like he was going to cry. Catherine slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Stay here. The second we have anything, I'll let you know, I promise." Greg nodded again and sank down on the bench. Nick squeezed his shoulder and they both left the room. He stared at the lockers for a while, unseeing. Then he allowed his head to drop to his chest, closing his eyes and willing himself to wake up from a nightmare.

It took an hour for any information to come to him. It came in the form of Sara, who came from the trace lab to find him slouched in the lounge, fiddling idly with a soda can. She gave him half a smile but had the good sense not to try to be cheerful. Greg looked up at her with anxious eyes.

"Catherine called." She said.

"Anything?" He asked, Sara shook her head and sat down next to him, patting his arm.

"They didn't find him." She replied. His eyes fell to the floor, even though he hadn't expected anything he felt the tiny fluttering wings of hope crushed.

"Was there... anything else?" He asked, afraid to meet her eyes again. Sara looked slightly more relaxed, having gotten the most difficult question out of the way.

"Catherine said there wasn't much blood." She said matter of factly. "He wasn't badly injured in the crash. It looked like he was pulled from the car, so maybe somebody got him out."

"Or whoever hit him took him too." Greg said, slightly more sourly than he intended. Sara winced.

"Yeah, or that. The evidence was gone from the Denali."

"The evidence?"

"From the crime scene Hodges came out to. The one he was driving the car back from."

"So most likely whoever hit the car took the evidence, which means they were probably connected to the first crime scene." Sara sat up sharply as Greg suddenly leapt to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"To do my job."

"You know you can't examine anything to do with this case, not if you want a conviction at the end of it."

"I can't do anything with Dave's case. But I'm still an assigned CSI to the first case, nothing to stop me working on that."

"Until Grissom finds out." He smiled at her, strangely excited by the thought being able to do something to help.

"Then I've got 'til then." He replied. She raised her eyebrows at him but stayed silent.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She asked finally. Greg was hopping from foot to foot again.

"I have to do something." He said, a note of hopelessness entering his voice. Sara looked at him for a second, considering.

"Fine." She said, standing up.

"Where are you going?" Greg asked nervously.

"I'm coming with you. If you're going to get away with this there'll need to be two of us documenting." For the first time since the news broke Greg felt half a smile forming.

"Thanks." He said sincerely. Sara simply tugged on his arm to draw him from the room. As they walked Greg caught a glimpse of the trace lab, then put his head down and studiously ignored it. It would be better to concentrate, to think about it as little as possible. But a single nagging thought kept tickling the back of his mind. This morning, he'd been laughing at him.


	3. Different

"He was always different."

"Always?"

"Always. Ever since we were children. Dad used to say it was like we'd been given a faerie child."

"He never talks about his father."

"He died, when he was very young."

"Young enough to not remember him?"

"Young enough to not be able to forgive him for dying."

"Was it sudden?"

"Car accident. Ironic really, cars were what bound them together. David spent more time in that garage than he did in the house, the two of them together, conspiring to take over the world one engine block at a time."

"He still does that, hides under the car when he's trying to escape from the world. If it's really bad he starts on my car too unless I rescue it in time."

"He throws himself into things; it helps him avoid having to deal with people."

"That and the violin, if it's not one it's the other."

"He's let you see the music? You must be special."

"I hope so."

"You are. The music has always been much more difficult for him, contradictory. It came from Mom; everything we got from Mom was contradictory."

"He doesn't really talk about her either."

"Does he talk about me? About Tim?"

"No, not really."

"Always different. Never thought he fitted in, always a square peg in a round hole. We love him; you have to understand that, in our own way."

"I know."

"He's our brother, we have to love him. But he doesn't make it easy."

"I know that too."

"I'm sure you do. We knew you must have the patience of a saint from the first time he mentioned you."

"He told you about me?"

"He never told you? That's very David."

"I don't think he meant it badly."

"I'm sure he didn't. He just doesn't quite get how people work, never has done."

"Must have made for an interesting childhood."

"You can't imagine. He was forever upsetting somebody; his teachers, the other kids, anyone in the neighbourhood who came within ten feet when he was having a bad day. It's no wonder he retreated back to the cars and the science and the music, and it was a relief for us to be honest."

"A relief?"

"We were kids too. We didn't want to be the ones with the weird little brother. Then of course he hit adolescence and that whole other can of worms opened up."

"Being gay."

"Being gay. Although it took us a long time to figure it out. Took him a long time to figure it out I think. He got all the way to college before I think it even occurred to him."

"Is it a problem?"

"To us? Nah. Not to me and Tim anyway. Mom never really said anything about it, other than saying she was glad she wouldn't have to bail him out over any more hookers."

"Bail him out over hookers?"

"That is definitely his story to tell, not mine."

"I always thought you must have some kind of problem with it, what with him never mentioning you and all."

"We've had a lot of arguments over the years, me and David, but never about that."

"Sorry."

"It doesn't matter, natural for you to assume."

"He has a picture of you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he keeps it in the living room. You and him and Tim, that was how I recognised you."

"I did wonder. A photo and the occasional email, that's not bad for David. Does he still have the piano?"

"Yeah, it owns our only truly flat wall."

"Does he play it?"

"Yes, when he thinks I'm out of the house."

"It was Mom's. She gave it to him when her arthritis got to bad to play. He was the only one of us who ever got on with it anyway."

"You all play?"

"We all learnt to play. Mom taught us when we were young. David was good enough to need a real tutor. Me and Tim just banged about really. I think it was the only thing they really understood about each other."

"Dave and your Mom?"

"Yeah. They used to play duets when he was younger, before Dad died. She used to accompany him when he played the violin, make him go to recitals and show off. He hated it."

"But he kept playing."

"He kept playing. For a while after Dad died I think it was just to spite her. He blamed Mom a lot more than we did, blamed her for not being Dad I think. They were always far too similar, fought like cat and dog until he left home."

"I signed him up to an amateur orchestra in Vegas. He used to play with one in L.A. I'm not sure if he's forgiven me yet."

"Did he go?"

"Yeah."

"Then he's forgiven you. That was the funny thing about the music. He played right up until college, took a double major in Biochemistry and Music even though he had to do an extra year to complete both. He was never good at decisions."

"Then he stopped?"

"Then he stopped. Took his masters in science and seemed to forget the music completely. At least we all thought he had, Mom was so mad."

"He did once tell me there was a fight about his master's programme."

"A fight! That's a little mild. There was almost a knock down drag out brawl when he came home to drop that bombshell."

"Why? If they got on so badly…"

"Didn't mean she didn't love him. I think she was afraid; the music was the only thing linking them in her eyes. They couldn't agree on which direction the sun rises and sets, but they could play together. She didn't want to lose him. Of course it had exactly the opposite effect, but then I don't think Mom understood people any better than David."

"Did they make it up?"

"Sort of. She gave him the piano, I think she knew he was still playing. But they never played together again, never talked about it either. They both just shut a door on it."

"It's sad."

"It's David. You must know him well enough to know that."

"I know. But it's still sad."

"Well he still has the music, he still has the cars, and he still has you by some miracle. How do you put up with him?"

"I love him."

"It's the only way."

"It feels odd to stand here talking about him."

"It feels odd to be here at all."

"If he was here he'd be yelling at us."

"Definitely. He's always done a good fit of indignant yelling."

"Andrew, they'll be ready to talk to you in a minute."

"What do I say?"

"Mostly you'll listen, they'll tell you how the investigation is going, everything they think you need to know as gently as possible. And they'll tell you they're going to get him back, even though they don't really know."

"Why aren't you doing this?"

"I already know the script. And legally, I'm not next of kin."

"So you can't be involved?"

"I can be involved in the investigation. And I will get him back."

"You said they'd tell me that too."

"Yeah, but I know I will. I don't have a choice."

"I believe you."

"Good. When he's home and safe we can start embarrassing him until he yells at us."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	4. Case

_Personal Case notes Brown, W_

_On arrival at the scene initial survey indicated a single vehicle, which appeared to have mounted the sidewalk and collided with a tree on the grass verge. The vehicle had sustained damage consistent with this impact but also had areas of damage inconsistent with this being a single impact collision._

* * *

Accident scenes always looked the same from a distance. Warrick approached the flashing lights slowly, eyes already scanning the road for the first indications of what had happened. As he drew closer he could see the Denali above the flashing lights of the police cars, up on the grass verge with its radiator grill firmly embedded in the trunk of a tree that now leant at a slightly crazy angle, swaying in the dying wind. It had at least stopped raining. He stopped a fair distance from the crash site, wanting to avoid disturbing any of the evidence on the road any more than it had been already. As he reached into the trunk for his kit his mind wandered briefly to the kind of injuries sustained in a crash like this, of how many people he had seen walk away and those who had been carried out on gurneys. He clamped down on the thought angrily and yanked the kit out of the trunk with more force than was strictly necessary. He would not think about that now, not when he needed to focus. Besides, he already knew they hadn't found Hodges dead or alive, so all speculation was pointless. Nick was approaching him from the scene, looking tired and older than his years. He raised a hint of a smile at Warrick's approach.

"Cath and I have the scene pretty much marked out. Could you concentrate on the vehicle?" He sounded tired too; this was rapidly turning into the longest kind of night.

"Sure." Warrick started towards the car, scanning the ground as he went for other signs of the collision. Debris and skid marks were clearly visible on the road, most of it already marked out with the yellow evidence triangles Nick and Catherine must have laid down. As he approached the car he saw something immediately wrong. The metal on the side facing him was dented, the front wheel pushed forward and the front wing buckled. He slowed his approach, taking more notice of the long skid mark that evidenced the car's progress to the kerb. As he reached the front wheel he knelt down, feeling along the front tyre for what he already knew he would find. His hand grazed a smooth area, stripped bald as it scraped along the road and he reached higher, feeling along the inside of the buckled wing. Standing, he moved around the car to the other side and knelt against the opposite wheel. The metal here was undamaged, the wing still smooth and unbuckled. But the wheel itself was bent, the ragged remains of the burst tyre dragged half underneath it and the metal itself cut with a deep groove, full of stone dust from the kerb. Warrick shone a light under the car, looking for the rest of the tyre and found it lying in a pool of dark liquid. Moving to the front he saw where the tree had cracked the radiator, releasing coolant onto the road; he was just reaching out to sample it when a voice behind him made him flinch. He looked up in annoyance and found Catherine's clear eyes staring back at him.

"Sorry." She said, kneeling beside him. "The tyre burst." She continued, reaching out a hand to examine the debris.

"Probably what caused him to mount the kerb." Warrick replied, reaching into his kit for a tape lift to remove a sample of the stone dust. "Have you seen the other side?" Catherine nodded.

"Looks like another impact." She said. Warrick shook his head slightly.

"I'll know more when I get it back to the lab, but I think he was pushed into the kerb."

"You mean it was deliberate." Warrick nodded. "It would fit with the missing evidence. And…"

"The missing person." Warrick finished. He looked up, towards the smashed passenger window. "Did he get out that way?" He asked, Catherine followed his gaze and then nodded.

"Most likely. The seatbelt's been cut and the window smashed in from the outside. They probably dragged him through the window unconscious, or semiconscious." Warrick released a long breath and then concentrated on photographing and carefully lifting the remains of the tyre.

"What about the second vehicle?" He asked, conscious that he was avoiding the end of the conversation they had just started.

"No sign of it when the cops arrived, it was probably drivable after the collision, maybe they took it with them."

"Well if it did push the Denali, there'll be a mess of paint transfer in that dent." He straightened up, dusting off his knees. In the distance he could see Nick, patiently measuring the skid marks, a pacing silhouette against the backdrop of red and blue light. "The sooner we can get the car back to the lab, the better chance we have of finding it before they torch it." Catherine nodded, it was probably a futile endeavour but it was better than doing nothing.

"We've done all the scene photos, if you're happy I'll call vehicle recovery."

"Fine by me." Warrick moved around the car to examine the damage to the tree, wondering if they would have to have it removed. He didn't look inside the Denali, pointedly averting his gaze from the driver's seat. 'One thing at a time', he thought to himself, 'just one thing at a time.'

* * *

_Personal Case notes Brown, W  
_

_Based on initial findings at scene a reconstruction has been produced using the available forensic evidence.__ The sequence of events is believed to be as follows._

_The Denali __(hereby referred to as Vehicle 1) was travelling southbound at a speed of 50 mph. Impact on Vehicle 1 occurred first in the driver's side door, extending into the front wing. The impact appears to have been caused by the suspect vehicle (Vehicle 2). Depth of impact indicates Vehicle 2 was travelling close to the speed of Vehicle 1._

_Both vehicles slowed on impact, Vehicle 2 appears to have scraped along the side of Vehicle 1, remaining in contact with the vehicle. Vehicle 1 braked sharply; sudden deceleration caused Vehicle 2 to contact the front driver's side wheel of Vehicle 1 and deform the axel, pushing the wheel into the front wheel arch. Vehicle 2 appears to have then pushed Vehicle 1 towards the kerb, indicated by the long skid marks identified as belonging to Vehicle 1 and the corresponding wear on the remaining tyres from this vehicle. _

_Upon impact with the kerb the front passenger side tyre of __Vehicle 1 appears to have burst, probably due to the friction forces operating upon it. Contact between the wheel surface and the kerb caused the wheel to buckle and the car to mount the kerb. Vehicle 2 appears to have followed Vehicle 1 onto the verge, evidenced by pieces of a broken headlight belonging to Vehicle 2 found there. The most likely scenario for this is that Vehicle 2 had become attached to Vehicle 1, possible hooked under the damaged wing and was dragged with Vehicle 1 when it lost control. _

_Vehicle 1 continued along the verge for ten metres before impacting a tree. The impact was powerful enough to have cracked the radiator and deploy the air bags, suggesting the car was travelling at a minimum of 30 mph on impact. This impact force was also probably sufficient to release Vehicle 2 and probably push it back onto the road, as the second vehicle was not present at the scene it must be assumed the car was still in a driveable condition. The condition of the driver of Vehicle 1 could not be ascertained, although insufficient blood was present to indicate he received any serious injuries in the crash._

_

* * *

_

_Autopsy Case notes – Dr A. Robbins_

_Victim French, Samuel. __CSI case #LVPD4475French. Autopsy performed by Dr. Albert Robbins._

_

* * *

_

The dead man on the table didn't look so bad. In a way, he preferred it when the bodies looked worse than this, when they were bruised or decomposed so far that he felt death may have come as something of a relief to them. This man looked surprisingly healthy, if you didn't count the impacted side of his skull or the deep and bloody mess that had once been his legs. He had a feeling that death had come as a horrible surprise to Mr French, although it had at least probably been a brief one.

There was a living man on the other side of the table who looked a lot worse than the dead man on it. Greg was still hopping from foot to foot, looking pale and edgy. Al wondered what Grissom thought he was doing, letting him work at all. On the other hand, when it came to losing one of their own, no matter who it may be, Gil was not known for his objective following of procedure.

"So what's the verdict Doc?" Greg's tone sounded artificially light to Al's ears, he wanted to tell him that he didn't need to pretend to a man who regularly saw the worst humanity had to offer, but their relationship had never included fatherly advice. He did what training had taught him to do and stuck to the facts.

"Initial findings? It's fairly obvious what killed him." He indicated the crushed side of his skull. "Other than that, bruising appears perimortem for most of the other injuries. If you asked my opinion from my first survey, I'd say he was hit twice. The second impact killed him." He moved his hands to examine the man's legs and Greg's eyes followed. Across his crushed legs there was the remnants of a tyre mark, the image seemed strangely and tragically comical. "Vehicle obviously." He added. "I'll give you a full report after the autopsy." Greg nodded absently, his mind clearly far away.

"We think it was the same people who took David." Greg blurted the words out suddenly and seemed slightly surprised that he had spoken. Al remained impassive, suppressing the jolt of surprise at both the revelation and the outburst.

"I'll put a rush on it." Was all he said. Greg smiled at him gratefully and left the room, walking with the same nervous tension that had kept him bouncing on his toes whilst they were talking. Al was suddenly reminded of his days as an intern, newly qualified and still working predominantly with the living. In the few months it had taken him and his fellow interns to join the physicians hardened cynic society they had named that walk, along with all the other repetitive mannerisms that they saw in the patients and relatives. It was the walk of the man who waited outside surgery, or at the doors of the E.R. or in a thousand other pacing places whilst their loved ones lived or died. In a way he'd always preferred the certainty of death, the relatives he saw these days tended to expect what they saw, even if it was the worst thing in the world. He reached out for a scalpel from the metal tray beside him, starting the autopsy as quickly as he had promised. He could give them the certainties from this man at least.

* * *

_Autopsy Case notes – Dr A. Robbins_

_Subject is a Caucasian male, aged 30 years. Time of death estimated to be between 11:00pm and 01:00am. Initial examination revealed extensive bruising to the legs and lower torso and a compound depressed skull fracture to the right temporal region with radiating fractures to the surrounding regions. Further examination revealed tibia-fibula and pelvic fractures consistent with an impact by an automobile. Bruising and tyre marks also support this conclusion. The majority of the injuries to the lower body appear to have been sustained shortly before death; however the depressed fracture of the skull and additional fractures to the pelvis and hip appear to have occurred after the first injuries. Extensive hemorrhage in the temporal region, partly resulting from severing of the middle meningial artery, is indicated as the most likely cause of death. Therefore autopsy would indicate that the body was subject to two impacts, the first most likely from an automobile, causing fractures to the lower extremities and pelvis. The second, which could also have been caused by an automobile, resulted in death._

_

* * *

_

_Personal case notes: S. Sidle_

_Re-examination of the scene of the murder of Samuel French (Case #LVPD4475French). Due to the loss of most of the evidence collected at the scene it was necessary to return to the location to collect any evidence left in situ and to re-examine the __available evidence in reference to the potentially linked case (#LVPD4476Hodges)._

_

* * *

_

Sara never liked going back to crime scenes. Some old instinct that she thought she had under control always reared its ugly head, making her actions feel like repentance for a failure in her work, another manifestation of the need to always do better that had dogged her heels for as long as she could remember. The irony of it was, Sara thought as she shone her flashlight through the echoing halls of the warehouse, they had done too good a job the first time for there to be anything much left to work with now. She watched Greg through the open warehouse door as he unpacked a kit from the car, looking older and more tired with every second that passed. The clock they were all counting in their heads was winding down and he knew it as much as anybody. Part of her wanted to go to him, to hold him and tell him some nonsense about everything being OK in the end, but she knew he wouldn't appreciate a sentiment nearly as much as he would appreciate her help. Besides, there was still a nagging part of her that said he should not be here at all, that he was endangering the conviction in this crime if it really was mixed up with the other. The thing he needed most from her now then, was to watch his back. She returned her attention to the inside of the warehouse; Greg would handle the perimeter and the locations where the body was found, hunting any scant trace that time and the rain had left behind. The inside of the building was perhaps a better chance, although the last time they were here all it had given them was a confusion of footprints in the dust and a single piece of melted polymer, dripped onto a concrete pole from where they had melted the alarm panel to reach the circuitry inside. Moving to the panel, Sara shone her flashlight inside, probing the wiring with a gloved hand. The wires to the sounder had been cut, Sara had already clipped the ends of the wires and collected them for tool marks, so they were gone now. She stood back from the panel and stared at it for a moment, considering. In the rush of evidence gathering last night she hadn't thought to much about the mechanics of the panel, assuming there would be time for that later. Now she looked more carefully at the melted edge and the cut wires. She paused for a moment and then called out.

"Greg?" She heard his footsteps coming towards her and looked up to find he had covered the distance surprisingly quickly.

"There's nothing left out there, the entire scene is washed out." His voice held an edge she hadn't heard for a long time, not since Nick had been taken. She could see a muscle clenching in his jaw but did her best to ignore it.

"Look at this." She indicated the alarm panel. Greg examined it for a moment before approaching and reaching out a finger to touch the melted edge, tipping his head to one side quizzically.

"They burnt their way in." He felt along the melted edge. "This is ABS polymer, that's going to take some serious heat. Probably a small blowtorch."

"Yeah, that's what Hodges said." The sentence was out of her mouth before she even knew it was coming. Greg's eyes snapped from the panel to her and reflexively she dropped her gaze to the floor. "Sorry." She said. She heard Greg take a shaky breath and then he reached out a hand to her, offering a watery smile.

"Don't worry about it." He said gently. "And I'd bet he used a lot more words than I did." Sara smiled in return.

"He did." She agreed. She turned back to the panel. "Seems like a lot of firepower to get through an alarm panel though, why not just bust the lock?" Greg thought for a moment and then replied.

"Mains."

"What?" Sara asked. Greg pointed to the metal trunking disappearing into the panel on the same side as the lock.

"The mains power for the alarm is going through there. Bust a lock and there's a chance you'll get a shocking surprise." Sara grimaced slightly at the pun and didn't dignify it with a response.

"So they melted the hinge side of the panel to get in. But here's the other thing." She pulled the panel open and indicated the cut wires. "They cut the wires to the sounder, but not to the silent alarm system. That's why the security guard was called."

"Maybe they didn't know about it."

"But they knew enough to have the tools to melt the panel?" Sara shook her head. "They must have thought they'd already disabled it." She mused, staring at the wires again. "What if they cut the wrong line?"

"The wrong line?" Greg asked. Sara nodded.

"These alarm systems use a phone line to inform the security company if the building is broken into. Maybe they thought they'd cut the phone line."

"We'll have to get the phone company onto it. I'll talk to Archie when we get back to the lab." Greg looked at the alarm for a moment, lost in thought. "Was this the co-polymer Dave came out for?" He asked at last. Sara nodded, but said nothing. "The alarm system is documented right?" He continued and she nodded again. Suddenly he reached out and pulled hard on the melted door, snapping the rigid plastic. "Let's take the whole thing this time, insurance or no insurance."

"I'll get the screwdriver." Sara replied, carefully keeping the surprise out of her voice. Greg smiled at her grimly, but said nothing more.

* * *

_Personal case notes: S. Sidle_

_Processing of the alarm panel collected at the scene provided no fingerprints or tool marks. Trace analysis of the __alarm panel showed the panel casing to be made from an ABS-copolymer blended with polycarbonate, to provide additional flame retardant properties. _

_

* * *

_

Archie yelled Sara's name when she was half way down the corridor with a hot cup of coffee and she turned so fast a few drops splashed onto her fingers, scalding her. She returned quickly to the AV lab, ignoring the stinging pain in her hand. Archie lead her to the monitor and sat down, motioning her to do the same.

"These are the phone numbers for your warehouse." He said, indicating the screen.

"Three numbers?" Sara asked. Archie nodded.

"But only two of them are publicly listed. This one is the warehouse phone and this is the fax line."

"So what about the third?" Sara asked. Archie gave her half a smile.

"That's where it gets interesting. The third one is an unlisted number. Looking at the call list the phone company sent over, I'd guess it was being used as private office phone." He clicked the mouse and a second window appeared. "Interestingly, when I got the phone company to test the lines, the private line wasn't working."

"We thought the thieves might have a cut a phone line, to disable the silent alarm." Archie nodded.

"I don't know about you, but if I was looking for an alarm system line to a security company…"

"An unlisted number would seem like a good candidate." Sara finished. "But it wasn't?"

"It wasn't. The alarm was actually connected to the fax line."

"Which explains the appearance of our security guard.." Sara sighed. "Not that this actually gets us any further." Archie tapped a few keys and the phone numbers disappeared, replaced with a grainy image.

"That's true, but I also got the CCTV footage from the scene, finally." Sara sat up straighter.

"Anything good?" She asked, not daring to hope.

"The cameras around the crime scene were blacked out, just like you thought." Sara sagged. "But I did get something from one of the other cameras." He played the footage. Sara watched a car pull up suddenly, almost skidding to a stop. Three men jumped out, wearing ski masks. The car sped off and the three men disappeared from the frame.

"Where were they headed?" She asked.

"From the position of the camera, they were going straight back towards the crime scene." Archie replied. "From the time code on the video and the timing of the call to the security company I'd say this happened about twenty minutes after the alarm was set off."

"The get away?" Sara wondered aloud. "Then why get out and run back?"

"Maybe they forgot something." Archie said, his tone was flippant but as he finished the sentence they turned to look at each other.

"Like evidence linking them to a murder." Sara said. She looked at the screen again. "Can you get the registration of that car?" Archie's fingers danced across the keyboard for a few moments, rewinding the film and enlarging the image of the car. The sharpening worked its way down the screen, slowly revealing the plate.

"Got it." Archie smiled and hit the print key, passing the paper to Sara. His smile faltered slightly as he looked at the image in her hand.

"Are these the guys?" He asked. Sara nodded.

"Probably." She said. Archie's face dropped a little further.

"Is there any more news?"

"Not that I know." Sara sighed and looked at the picture again. "This will help though." The edge of smile touched Archie's face again.

"You know if AV evidence finds him and not trace he'll never forgive any of us." Sara let out a sound that was half laugh, half sigh.

"Yeah, but think of all the gloating you can do when he gets back." She replied.

* * *

_Officer notebook__: B Henderson_

_Stolen vehicle reported abandoned on waste ground near intersection in Henderson. Report by neighbour__, Mr W Davies, who owns property adjoining the area where the car was abandoned. Report indicates Mr. Davies saw several people running from the vehicle after he shone a light from his window into the area. Responding officer found indications that vehicle had recently sustained damage. Damage consistent with description broadcast for a suspect vehicle in an active case. Detective and CSI called. _

_

* * *

_

They'd wasted no time taking the car back to the lab. It was a beat up Ford, probably once white but now a dirty grey. It was covered in mud and scratches, with a badly folded wing on the passenger side. Nick estimated in his career he had probably taken a hundred cars of this make and model apart and he could now do it blindfolded, but now wasn't the time for showing off. He carefully opened the door, smearing his gloves with the fingerprint dust he had liberally covered the door and its handle with to gain a single partial print, slightly smudged. The door protested, jammed against the folded wing and he carefully pushed it, producing a gap just wide enough to squeeze inside. He could hear Warrick carefully disassembling the engine, the click of the ratchet as he removed the spark plugs and placed them into a metal tray. As he climbed through the gap Nick noticed a damp patch on the back seat and craned his neck to get a better look. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a swab, twisting his body awkwardly to rub it across the fabric. He brought the swab close to his face, already catching a familiar smell. He opened the window and leaned out.

"Hey, there's gasoline on the back seat." Warrick appeared from the engine bay and came around to the side of the car.

"You think they tried to torch it?"

"Probably about to when our friend Mr Davies scared them off." Nick shone a flashlight around the car's interior, and then paused. "What's that?" He asked, pointing to the rear foot well. He began to twist his body when Warrick stopped him.

"I'll get it; this car has four doors y'know." Nick sat back, his eyes darting around the interior for a second before they focussed on the dashboard; he leant forward as Warrick spoke. "Got it." He said, reappearing at the door.

"And I got blood." Nick replied as he gently lifted the spot with another swab. He looked up at the object Warrick was holding, a piece of plastic blackened and misshapen. "What is it?" He asked. Warrick shrugged.

"Melted plastic. But look." He turned the plastic to face him and Nick saw the faint impression of ridges, the corner of a shoe print.

"So someone steps in some melted plastic, transfers it to the car on their shoe and then it drops off?"

"Or was knocked off in the impact. This stuff is pretty sticky." He looked at the sealed swab Nick was still holding. "Is there enough blood for DNA?" He asked. Nick nodded.

"Should be, but there was no DNA evidence from the first scene even before the evidence was stolen, so we've got nothing to compare it to."

"The job these guys pulled, they're probably already in the system." Warrick replied, sealing the plastic into an evidence bag.

"Probably." Nick agreed without much enthusiasm. Warrick looked at him for a moment.

"It's something." He said quietly.

"It's not a lot." Nick replied. He sealed his own evidence bag with the swab inside, holding the pen cap in his teeth as he signed the seal. "Who knows if it's even relevant, for all we know it could belong to the guy they stole the car from." He said, replacing the cap on the pen. Warrick sighed.

"True, but let us process it before we take guesses." He said, putting a hand gently on Nick's shoulder. "We don't know anything yet man." Nick returned his attention to the dashboard, reaching into the pocket of his vest for yet another pot of fingerprint powder.

"No, we don't." He replied.

* * *

_Trace analysis summary report._

_Case: LVPD#4476Hodges_

_Evidence identifier/Subm__itting CSI: 722401894, Brown, W_

_Technician: R Daniels_

_Material: Plastic shard_

_Procedure: __IR spectroscopy, GC-MS_

_Result: Most likely composition returned Acrylonitrile butadiene styrene (ABS)-copolymer/ polycarbonate alloy . _

_Notes: Composition of material identical to Evidence 722401889, Plastic Alarm panel cover, submitted Sidle, S  
_

_

* * *

_

He'd known he would have to do this since the moment this whole thing had started, or at least had started to take shape. Grissom had been putting it off, indulging a habit he knew was a character fault but had never truly shaken, a permanent ghost at the back of his mind that whispered that whatever he ignored would eventually go away. Grissom had also learned long ago that being aware of your faults did not necessarily improve them. Now he was seated behind his own desk, waiting for Greg to arrive and hoping that he didn't make this any harder than it already was. The last thing he wanted right now was to have to leave his desk and drag him away. Instead he waited and a few seconds later his patience was rewarded as Greg slipped through his door and sat without a word. For a moment they just looked at each other, Grissom observing, with the part of his brain that was always annotating every situation, that Greg looked smaller than he usually did, as if he was slowly folding in on himself.

"You've heard about the shard of alarm panel Nick found in the abandoned car?" Greg nodded, they both knew what was coming already, but for the sake of the record and his own piece of mind, Grissom had to spell it out. "The car is linked by paint scrapings to the Denali and the plastic links it to the warehouse." Greg nodded.

"So the two cases are now one case." He said, his tone flat.

"The two are now one." Grissom agreed. "And that means you can't work on the warehouse any more." Greg looked up at him; there was anger in his eyes but not very much surprise.

"So I'm back to doing nothing." His tone was bitter and Grissom unexpectedly found himself feeling defensive.

"There's nothing I can do Greg. The two cases are linked by a chain of evidence, I let you work on one with your relationship with Hodges and the defence will destroy both without breaking a sweat." To his surprise Greg made a sound that could almost be considered laughter.

"My 'relationship' to Dave." He replied. There was a derisive note in his voice and Grissom was momentarily confused. Greg continued with anger seeping slowly into his tone. "Ironic, a lawyer in Nevada will use a relationship the law in Nevada doesn't recognise to bring down a case."

"I'm sorry." Grissom said, leaning back into his chair. For a second the watery remnants of a smile graced Greg's features.

"It's not your fault." He replied, his tone a mix of frustration and defeat. "I can't be treated as next of kin; I can't be part of the investigation. I just feel…"

"Disconnected." Grissom supplied. Greg nodded.

"Andrew is being great and involving me in everything, I know you guys will tell me the second there's any news." He sighed. "But I'm effectively useless."

"He'll need you most when he comes back." Grissom replied.

"It's been a long tine." Greg said quietly, "if we haven't found him by now there's a good chance we won't." The fear hung heavy in the air once it was spoken and Greg seemed to shrink further into himself.

"Hodges is very… tenacious Greg. I wouldn't give up on him yet." Greg stood up and buried his hands in his pockets.

"I'm just preparing for the worst." He said. Grissom nodded.

"Good. But preparing for it doesn't mean assuming it's going to happen."

* * *

_DNA analysis summary report:_

_Case: LVPD#4476Hodges_

_Evidence identifier/Submitting CSI: 722401896, Stokes, N_

_Technician: W Simms_

_Sample type: Blood_

_Procedure: WBC__ DNA extraction, STR-PCR, Capillary Electrophoresis_

_Result: Profile obtained XY. Male, no exact match. Partial match fraternal/paternal, CODIS. _

_Notes: Fraternal match indication – Parents of match recorded as deceased. Y-chromosome STR haplotype ordered. CODIS record appended._

_

* * *

_

Catherine had never exactly been a fan of meetings. She wasn't great at any activity that required more talking than action, something that got her into more trouble than she cared to admit. She didn't think any of them were particularly enjoying this meeting though, they had gathered around the table as if they were trying to avoid the empty chair that stared accusingly at them. She'd seen Greg in the lobby, avoiding her eyes in a way that made her heart clench in her chest and her mind reach desperately for something to say to him only to realise she really had nothing left to say. Instead she offered him another hug and he accepted it tiredly, sagging against her like the wind had been knocked out of him. As she sat at the table her hands still tingled where he had held them slightly too tight and silently begged her to tell him what he wanted to hear. Nick was speaking and she forced herself to reorient her attention to him, escaping from the memory.

"Wendy gave us a male sibling match for the DNA on the dashboard." He said. When she listened closely Catherine noticed that everyone's voice had taken on a shade of the tiredness Greg had held, as if the energy was slowly being sapped from all of them.

"Any chance of finding the brother?" Grissom asked.

"Only in the cemetery. He was murdered a year ago and the case was never solved, likely a gangland hit."

"Was the brother ever contacted as next of kin?" Catherine asked, a small flame of hope sparking into life. Nick shook his head.

"They were both fostered separately as children and social services lost track, the usual story."

"Do we have a name?" Grissom asked.

"The brother was a Tom Stevens, but he seems to have picked the surname up from one of his foster families." Nick shrugged. "Tom was in CODIS before his murder, picked up for some robbery and misdemeanour offences. Brass is tracking down a few of his old associates, see if anyone knows anything."

"Could be a family business." Catherine said doubtfully. She looked around the table, "anything else?"

"Autopsy on the security guard suggests he was run over, probably more than once." Sara said, her eyes on the file in front of her. "Doc Robbins reckoned the most likely scenario was a car hitting him in one direction and then reversing back over the body, although he says we can't quote him on that."

"Pretty cold, running over a body." Warrick said, "they must have had some nerve."

"Or have been panicking." Sara replied "we think they tried to cut the silent alarm system, there's a good chance the security guard came as a surprise to them."

"Either way it's murder." Warrick replied. Sara raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"It's also the same group." She continued "there's the polymer from the car and Archie found security footage of a group running back towards to the crime scene from the get away vehicle."

"Any faces?" Catherine asked.

"No. The registration traces back to a vehicle stolen in Henderson, but the car hasn't been recovered."

"Then they might still have it." Warrick said, "they would have needed another vehicle after they ran Hodges off the road to transport him and the evidence."

"Assuming they took him anywhere." Grissom said. Nick looked up suddenly, an edge of anger to his voice.

"We've searched everything in a mile radius of that crash scene, there's no body." Grissom raised a placating hand.

"I know." He said. "So we assume they took Hodges and the evidence, but where?" He looked around the assembled faces but no one replied, Catherine cast her eyes down to the table top, feeling the weight of the silence. She was relieved when it was suddenly broken by the trill of Nick's cell.

"I'll be right down." He said and snapped the phone shut. "That was Brass, he's pulled in one of Tom Stevens' known associates." Nick got up to leave and Grissom and Catherine spoke in unison.

"I'll go with you." They looked at each other and Catherine motioned to Gil.

"You go." She said. Grissom nodded and followed Nick, turning in the doorway to look at the rest of them.

"We've not lost him yet." He said. "Keep working."

* * *

_Interview Transcript_

_Case: LVPD#4476Hodges_

_Suspect: James Randall_

_Investigating officer: Detective__-Captain Brass_

_Also present: CSI Grissom_

_Trace evidence, DNA and fingerprints taken from suspect by CSI Stokes at 00:30. Interview commenced at 00:52_

_Det. Brass (__**JB**__), CSI Grissom (__**GG**__) and James Randall (__**JR**__)_

_**JB:**__Hello James, my name is Detective Brass, this is CSI Grissom. We'd like to have a word with you._

_**JR:**__ You're getting nothing._

_**JB:**__ Come on James, I haven't even asked any questions._

_**JR:**__ I don't know anything._

_**JB:**__ You don't even know what I'm going to ask you yet._

_**JR:**__ It doesn't matter, I don't know anything._

_**JB:**__ It's an interesting record you have here James, quite stimulating reading. Your eighteenth birthday must have come as quite a blow._

_**JR:**__ What?_

_**JB:**__ You're not a minor anymore, no more easy street in the juvenile courts. You're playing with the big boys now James._

_**GG:**__ Why did you hit him twice?_

_**JR:**__ What?_

_**GG:**__ The guard, why did you hit him twice? He'd have probably survived if you only hit him once._

_**JR:**__ I don't know what you're talking about._

_**JB:**__ Come on James, don't be like that. We're not interested in you, we want the brains of the operation._

_**JR:**__ I don't know anything._

_**JB:**__ Well I can believe that. You knew Tom Stevens though, didn't you James?_

_**JR:**__ Who?_

_**JB:**__ Don't be stupid, we have you two on a list of known associates. Well we did until Tom bit the big one. Were you there James, did you see it happen?_

_**JR:**__ I don't know anything. About anything. This is harassment._

_**JB:**__ We're just talking here James, just talking. Now Tom, did you know his brother?_

_**JR:**__ What brother?_

_**GG:**__ The brother who left blood in the car used to run one of my people off the road. Do you know him James? Now would be a very good time to tell us._

_**JR:**__ You're all crazy._

_**GG:**__ Those are nice sneakers James, can I see them?_

_**JR:**__ What? No._

_**JB:**__ James, I think now would be a very good time to be co-operative. _

_**JR:**__ Fine, here._

_Suspect hands his shoes to CSI Grissom._

_**GG:**__ See this is interesting. There's some plastic on these shoes James, I think I've got the rest of it back at the lab with your shoe print embedded in it. We got it from that car you know nothing about._

_**JB:**__ James, this is less than good my friend._

_**JR:**__ I don't know what you're talking about. I share an apartment, maybe somebody took my shoes._

_Interview suspended- CSI Grissom called from the room. Interview resumed 01:03._

_**GG:**__ Tell me James, did the person who took your shoes take your fingers too?_

_**JR:**__ Huh?_

_**GG:**__ We've just identified your fingerprint on the door of that car. Since I'm pretty sure all your fingers are attached._

_**JR:**__ Look, I was there ok, but I didn't do anything._

_**JB:**__ Of course not. You were just an innocent bystander in a car involved in a kidnapping. And a robbery. And a murder._

_**JR:**__ It wasn't my idea, ok? I never wanted any of that._

_**JB:**__ Whose idea was it then James? _

_**JR:**__ Daniel. Daniel Stevens, Tom's brother._

_**GG:**__ Where can we find Daniel James?_

_**JR:**__ I don't know. I took my money and I split. I'm not part of that gang; I was just along for the ride. _

_**JB:**__ That's a shame James, 'cause right now you're all I got for three crimes. Looks like you'll be taking the rap for all of them. _

_**JR:**__ Look, I can give you Daniel's apartment, he's never really there, but I met him at a party and he took me back there. That's how I got into this. He said it was going to be a simple job, he never said anything about murder._

_**JB:**__ That's good James. Here, write it down on this piece of paper. _

_**(Paper logged, Evidence#722401922)**_

_**JB:**__ Now, this nice officer will take you to your room. _

_Interview terminated 1:10am_

_

* * *

_

As far as Brass was concerned, it was his job to kick in the door. What they found on the other side was the realm of the CSI's, unless of course it was breathing and wielding a gun, but the door kicking duties definitely fell to him and his subordinates. He'd handled this door personally. The apartment was dingy and ill-lit, a theme in the residences he visited. The floor was stacked with electrical equipment, video recorders and stereo systems, TVs and DVD players. The whole place smelt slightly of oil and burnt plastic, mixed with a vague whiff of solvents that made Brass wrinkle his nose in distaste. He looked up as one of the officers approached him, shining his flashlight in Brass' eyes before he realised what he was doing and hastily dropped the beam.

"Sorry." He said, Brass waved the apology away. "All the rooms are clear, there's nobody here." Brass nodded, he'd already surmised as much himself, despite a slight flicker of hope that had existed until he had broken in the door.

"Guard the door; try to stop the neighbours getting too good a look." He said and the young man dashed off, still naïve enough to be eager. Nick was already at work, shining his own light over one of the piles of electrical equipment.

"Look at this stuff." He said, playing the beam across the boxes. "Where'd he get all of these?" Nick knelt down and probed his fingers between the piles of equipment. "There must be twenty DVD players here, all identical." He said. Warrick's head poked round the door.

"Wait 'til you see the kitchen." He said. Nick rose to join him and Brass followed, casting his eyes about the room. It wasn't just the DVD players; there must have been ten televisions, most of them the same make and model. The stereos too and the video recorders, although those looked older, their boxes covered in a thin sheen of dust. As he passed through the kitchen door Brass saw what Warrick meant, the countertops were littered with electronic debris, motors and heads and leads. The table had a large box sitting on it, possibly once a computer, with leads trailing out of it to a circuit board lying unprotected on the wooden surface. Suddenly Brass tripped and stumbled, he looked down to find cabling snaking across the floor, loosely taped down with strips of duct tape. Warrick was already by the table, shining a light over the tools arrayed on it. Nick murmured something to him and he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out an evidence bag.

"What's he been doing here?" Brass wondered aloud. Nick shrugged.

"Repairing things?" He looked around himself. "Some of this stuff is real old; some of it's brand new. I'm guessing this is a hobby." Brass looked around at the mess of wires and the objects cluttering every surface.

"Some hobby." He muttered.

"Well some of the stuff in the living room looks like it might have come out of a robbery." Warrick said.

"And whoever robbed the warehouse would have needed this kind of technical know how to bypass the alarm." Nick continued. He sighed and looked around himself. "I guess we better ship it all back to the lab and process it." He looked defeated and Warrick placed his hand briefly on his shoulder.

"I'll get you some help." Brass said and stepped out of the room, feeling unreasonably uncomfortable. Hope was a horrible thing when it kept rising and dying.

* * *

_Personal case notes N. Stokes._

_Case: LVPD4476Hodges_

_Evidence log (partial)_

_Electronic/ Electrical items collected._

_Floor plan for residence appended._

_See individual evidence reports for item descriptions_

_Room A_

_DVD player – 20 items_

_Television – 12 items_

_Video Recorder - 8 items_

_Stereo Receiver/ Amplifier – 18 items_

_Room B_

_Circuit boards – 33 items (sent to AV for identification and analysis)_

_Computer (incomplete) – 1 item_

_Catergory 5 cable – 2 items_

_Power Cable – 3 items_

_Multimeter – 1 item_

_Radio (valve) – 1 item_

_Radio (transistor) – 3 items_

_Room C_

_Computer (complete) – 1 item_

_Items range in condition from new to heavily damaged. Most new items are those found in bulk in room A, items in room A were of similar makes and models (see attached log for full details)._

_

* * *

_

It looked like they'd emptied a hi-fi store onto the evidence table. Not all the boxes had fitted, so they were also stacked about the room and to Nick the piles looked both massive and totally useless. He scrubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to erase the dull ache that was settling above his eyes. Depression was seeping to all of them; he could see it in the dull gazes that greeted him when he looked around the table. Catherine raised her eyebrows at him, snapping on a pair of gloves and offering him a weak smile.

"Shall I serve?" She asked. She passed him the first of the black boxes, handing another to Warrick and pulling a third towards herself. Nick put on his own gloves and felt around the edges of the machine. He probed the drawer, pulling it out and shining a flashlight into the gap. Reaching for the screwdriver he was turning the machine onto its side to reach the screws at the bottom when the top of box caught the light.

"Hmm." Nick made an interested noise and tipped the case again, making the light glance off its surface. Warrick and Catherine both looked up.

"What is it?" Catherine asked. Nick held out his hand.

"Hand me that UV." Nick replied. Catherine passed him the lamp and Warrick moved to the wall, switching off the lights. Slipping on his glasses, Nick shone the UV light on the top of the box and letters appeared, glowing in unearthly relief against the dark surface.

"Acorn electronics." Catherine read. Below the name there was an address and Nick pulled out his notebook, copying it down. "Hey, shine it over here." Nick handed the lamp to her and she shone it on the DVD player she had been examining. The same legend appeared and Catherine handed the light to Warrick, who shone it first on his own evidence, then on the rest of the boxes piled around the table. At least half of them showed the same markings. Moving to the wall Warrick switched the lights on and the three of them looked at each other. "I wonder if Acorn electronics has had a robbery lately?" Catherine asked.

* * *

_Business Licence Information_

_City of Las Vegas_

_Business name: Acorn Electronics_

_Type of business: Electronics retailer_

_Address: Not displayed_

_Owner: Albert Golding_

_Owner title: Owner_

_Status: Out of business_

Albert Golding was a very worried man. He'd been a worried man for so long now that the lines had etched permanently into his forehead; aging his face and making him look as if he might at any moment fold in on himself. When the knock came, it took a while for him to convince his hands to stop shaking for long enough to let him open the door, but when he saw the police badge on the other side a wave of unexpected calm fell over him and he felt, to his great surprise, better than he had in months. He showed them in, the policeman with the brusque manner and the other man, who was quieter and more thoughtful, but whose eyes darted about the room like he was cataloguing Albert's life.

Not that there was much left to catalogue; the picture of his wife on the mantle, when Ruth still smiled without grimacing with the pain that had plagued for the last few months. A few scant possessions, some books that had always travelled with him and had settled, like him, onto dusty shelves in this godforsaken place. The brusque policeman was sitting on the couch, giving him a smile that Albert couldn't help but find slightly predatory. The quiet man was still browsing around the room, reading the titles of the books and studying the few paintings that hung on the wall. Albert had painted those boats himself, from life in a far away place and he almost wanted to ask the quiet man's opinion of them, but he held his tongue.

"So all we want to know is how your stock wound up in this kid's house." The brusque man was speaking to him but he only caught the end of the sentence. It didn't matter; he knew what this was about anyway. He hesitated for a moment and the quiet man turned to face him, eyes wide and questioning.

"Why do you mark your stock with a UV pen Mr Golding?" The quiet man asked. Albert was taken by surprise for a moment and his mouth opened to answer almost without his permission.

"So many robberies." He replied, his voice sounding rough and older than he remembered. Since Ruth had died he hadn't had much reason to talk. "We marked the stock to have some way of getting it back to us, if the police ever found it." The edge of bitterness in his tone was involuntary and he regretted it.

"But what about when your customers bought it?" The quiet man asked. Albert shrugged.

"They never noticed, who looks for a thing like that these days?" He wanted to add that there had been few customers to notice anyway, but there was no sense in throwing oil on that particular fire.

"Your company is insolvent isn't it Mr Golding?" The policeman spoke again and Albert turned his attention to him, seeing the quiet man come to stand by the fireplace out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, for six months." He replied.

"Any bankruptcy procedures against you?"

"Yes." Albert repeated, almost grateful that the conversation was plodding to its inevitable conclusion.

"Then that property would become forfeit to your creditors, wouldn't it?" The brusque man asked the question as if he didn't already know the answer. It was a habit Albert despised.

"Yes." He replied shortly. "That was why I gave it to Daniel."

"Ah yes, Daniel." The policeman said thoughtfully and Albert saw the quiet man stand more to attention. For the first time a horrible thought crossed his mind. Was this not about the bankruptcy and an old man's folly? What on earth had Daniel done?

"He used to work for me sometimes, in the shop. He repaired things the customers brought in. He was a good boy." Albert realised his tone was defensive, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"So you gave him the stock. For safekeeping?" The policeman asked. Albert shook his head, too defeated to fight anymore.

"It was a stupid thing to do. I just couldn't face losing everything." It was the best excuse Albert had come up with, even in his own mind, but he knew it wasn't strictly true. An old instinct had kicked in when he realised the bank would want to take all the things from the shop; an old instinct to run with what you could carry.

"We think Daniel might have hurt somebody." The quiet man spoke with a gentle tone, as if he realised that Albert was far away, lost for a second in a memory. "We need to find him."

"He's a good boy." Albert replied stubbornly but his heart was sinking to his boots. It could have happened so easily.

"Do you know where he is?" The brusque man spoke sharply but Albert looked into his eyes and saw an emotion there he recognised, a hint of a desperate fear he knew too well.

"I gave him the keys to the shop." He said quietly, his voice tightening as if his throat was trying to close off his betrayal. "The lease is still in my name although the whole place is boarded up."

"Thank you." The quiet man said. They were both already moving towards the door when Albert spoke again.

"What about the stock and the… Bankruptcy?" The brusque man turned back to face him, his face almost apologetic.

"Someone will be round to talk to you about that." He said. Albert closed the door behind them and went to sit in his favourite chair, staring at the picture of Ruth on the mantelpiece and listening to the tick of the clock. Tears were sliding slowly down his cheeks, but he could not raise a hand to stop them.

* * *

They don't approach from the road. Nick would have called it instinct, Sara luck and Warrick just good procedure, but for whatever reason they leave the Denali in a parking lot and walk slowly round the back of the shop, towards the chain link fence that surrounds a small overgrown yard, where the yellowing grass is knee high. The sun is high in the sky and their shadows walk before them, passing through the wire to cast themselves in the long grass. They peer through the holes, dividing the area without speaking. Warrick paces along one side of the fence and into the alley that runs between the shop and an adjacent building, Sara follows the other side of the fence to where it meets the shop. Nick concentrates on opening the rusty gate to reach the yard itself. Warrick shouts, louder than Nick would like him to but loud enough for Sara to turn around and follow the sound. He is pointing to the end of alley, where a car is parked and Sara reaches into her jacket for the picture from the security camera and holds it out to Warrick, pointing to it urgently. They share a look, then hear Nick's voice. They both turn and retreat to the fence again, finding him inside the caged garden, holding apart the strands of long grass. Warrick sees it first; Sara follows their eyes and catches a familiar sight that makes her heart thump against her chest for a second. The evidence bag has her name on it, although she cannot honestly say she can remember writing that particular seal. She'd barely been able to think that night, with the wind and the rain. Warrick pulls out a camera and photographs the bag, Nick picks it up with tweezers and puts it in a bag of his own; the bag within a bag making him think briefly of an infinity mirror. The three of them turn to face the building, the windows covered by sacking from the inside and the glass catching the sun, glaring flashes of white that try to blind them. Swift discussion and agreement makes them retreat, back through the rusty gate and out of the grass, because they all know now and the importance of the next two minutes has dawned on them. They can feel the hope flowering, slightly desperate and probably forlorn, but still they creep backwards, sharing looks to check they are all still in agreement. Once they are a safe distance away Nick raises his phone to his ear and speaks, then the three of them move to the car to wait. There is too much experience between them to think that spur of the moment heroics will end anything other than badly, yet they can all feel their muscles tightening with the involuntary desire to act. They look at each other, they stay silent, and they wait.

* * *

_Operation: Search and recovery_

_Case: LVPD#4476Hodges_

_Officer in charge: Detective Captain Brass_

_Property: Acorn Electronics_

_Date and Time: 10-25 0900 hours_

_Appended documents: Map_

_Notes: Surveillance indicates at least three males, seen entering and leaving shop by front entrance. One male fits description of Daniel Stevens. At least one person known to be armed, Colt M9 pistol observed in the hand of one of the suspects during surveillance and it cannot be assumed that there are not more arms within the shop. Entrance for the operation will be through the front of the premises with officers positioned at the rear in case of escape. Surveillance prior to entry will be conducted to ascertain approximate positions for suspects. Initial entry to be made by armed officers in standard protective clothing, followed by officer backup and CSI when the scene is secured. _


	5. Dark

Dark. The funny thing was that for the first few seconds he had found the darkness comforting, even though there was a voice in his brain screaming that something was wrong. The voice was growing louder by the second, rushing towards his conscious thoughts like a racing train. Yet, for the first few precious seconds he was not afraid.

* * *

Light. The fear when it came was blinding, the sensation of being slammed in the chest by a white wall of terror. Finally the fear slowly receded from the edges, his mind clearing as the panic ebbed away and heavy dread settled in its place like molten lead. His hands flexed, testing the strength of the bond that held them and he blinked, trying to speed up the adjustment of his eyes to the darkness. He needed to know where he was, what was happening, before the dread crawled up into his throat and strangled him.

* * *

Quick. The images were dizzying if he thought about it too hard. Relaxing and letting the story come to him brought flashes of the car, of the accident in the driving rain, of being dragged bodily from the vehicle with the seatbelt still tangled around his shoulder. Of the taste of iron and copper in his mouth and the way the world began to dip and sway and dim even as he struggled. The images flitted rapidly through his brain, sometimes in order and sometimes fragmented like a half remembered nightmare. He shied away from them, closing his eyes although he knew it would do no good. He drifted back to sleep again, shutting himself away for a few more precious hours.

* * *

Slow. The second time he awoke it was much more slowly, because he knew what was waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids. He raised himself up reluctantly, using the leverage of his bound hands and noted in passing that it was brighter in the room, although the light had the dirty grey tinge of a covered window. The last of the panic had gone; the images receded to the back of his mind. He was left with the determination and the dread and he concentrated on one to avoid the other. The room had seemed cavernous in the dark but was actually much smaller than he had imagined, lined with empty, dusty shelves like the backroom of a store. There was a single wooden door in the wall opposite him, the door would inevitably be locked but he tried it anyway. His shoulders were aching from where his arms were held behind his back and he sat back down with a bump, his brief exploration at an end. He realised that for now he might as well sit, until he knew where he was and why he was here. He stretched his arms out as far as he could, willing the blood back into his shoulders. Counting his own breaths, he waited.

* * *

Open. The door had been opened six times by his count. Assuming they were feeding him twice a day that meant he had spent three days in this room. It seemed an impossibly long period, but time had become stretched and fluid to him. The light level in the room barely changed and he slept when the urge came upon him, which was often. They had untied his hands, once they realised he wasn't going to offer much resistance and settled for handcuffing one arm to the shelving units. Brief exertion the first time they had done this had assured him that the shelves were bolted to the wall. He felt strangely guilty for his inactivity, as if he should be trying every second to escape, even though logic told him there was probably a man with a gun less than a foot from the only exit and he wouldn't get much further than that without a bullet in his back. His captors almost seemed wary of him, edging into the room and backing towards the door as if they were afraid any second he might break loose and attack him. He assumed they thought he was some superhero CSI rather than a lowly technician, a misapprehension he could only blame on the lack of light. They gave him water, fed him more regularly than some conference hotels he had stayed in and in his blacker moments he felt he couldn't complain that much. There had been no demands; they didn't really seem to know what to do with him. That thought both reassured and worried him, so he found it better to concentrate on the logic of the situation. He particularly avoided thinking about people, it was a talent he had been nurturing for years and although it had grown rusty in the last few months he resurrected the wall around himself without too much difficulty. As long as he didn't think of people, didn't dwell on him too much, the pain and the hope were contained in the back of his mind and he could think clearly, make decisions based on facts and not on a fantasy of rescue by his own knight in shining armour. He used the same escape he always had when he wanted to forget his own thoughts; he let music roll through his head, unwinding to cover everything else as it went. He'd once told Greg, although he winced to even think of his name, that the only way to truly know a piece of music was to play it, to pick it apart and examine it from the inside out. Now his fingers twitched with useless movements as he worked through the imaginary scores, studied long enough to be etched into his mind and comforting in their familiarity. The imaginary sounds were old familiar friends and he shut his eyes, ignored reality, and listened.

* * *

Closed. By what his unpredictable counting system told him was the fifth day, most of his wounds had begun to close and heal. He had become aware, slowly, that the cut above his eye must be infected. Gingerly he touched the skin around it and found it warm and tender, his fingers trying to gauge the size and shape of it as he wished desperately for a mirror. The last time he had poked at it he came away with pus on his fingers and he had suddenly stopped, acutely worried by how bad it was. Knowledge came rushing up from the depths of his memory; the most likely type of infection, the typical indications of the immune response and the likelihood of the infection crossing into his blood. Images of septicaemia he had seen at college flashed back at him and knowing the chance was tiny was no help when that also meant you knew it was possible. He hunkered down with his head bowed and tried fruitlessly to think of something else, his brain now a minefield of the thoughts he was avoiding. The door suddenly banged open and he looked up to find a man staring at him, holding a gun. Bizarrely he was grateful for the interruption, even including the firearm.

* * *

"Come." The man spoke with a clipped tone. David stood up and then gestured to the handcuffs. The man unlocked it, using the free end to handcuff both his hands together, and then gestured with a nod of his head. "Come." He repeated. David allowed himself to be led, confusion more than fear making him compliant. As he passed through the door, he saw he had been right about his likely chances of escape. There was a chair on the other side and the man sitting in it grinned at him wolfishly and tapped his gun against his knee. The man leading David jerked him sharply forward and he stumbled, raising a snort of laughter from the man in the chair. The room appeared to be a deserted shop, the front boarded up with shafts of sunlight peaking through the cracks, he could see at least that it was daylight. He was led sideways past the covered bulk he took to be the counter and through a door into another room. There was an uncovered window here and the dust in the air glinted in the sunbeams. Roughly he was shoved towards a table and he contacted with it sharply, unable to put his hands out to stop himself. The impact sent a spike of pain from his hip to his brain and he stumbled back.

"Look." The man spoke sharply and pointed to the table. Its surface was littered with what David had initially taken to be trash, but as he looked more closely he realised everything on the table bore familiar bags and tags. This was the evidence from the car he had been driving, his first thought was that this was the last time he did a CSI a favour. He looked up at the man standing next to him; to his surprise he looked a little guilty. "We were expecting you to stop somewhere." It was the longest sentence David had heard for days and he surprised himself by opening his mouth to reply.

"But I didn't." He said, his voice sounding odd to his own ears. The man shook his head.

"You didn't." He agreed. 'You took me too.' David thought as he turned back to the table. 'You wanted this but you had to take me too. I'm an accidental hostage.' He thought for a moment longer. 'Why didn't you shoot me?' He wondered. 'Why haven't you shot me?' The man spoke again, the guilt gone from his voice and replaced with overdone harshness, as if he were compensating. He gestured to the table.

"What will they do with this?" He asked. David cocked his head, musing on the best way to answer.

"Well they'll process it." He said finally. "Look for things linking you to the crime; trace, fingerprints, DNA, the fact you stole it all from a moving vehicle." He hadn't really meant to let the last part slip out, but apparently he wasn't able to shut up even under pressure. Fortunately his captor, who he was already beginning to suspect wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, didn't seem to have noticed.

"Destroy it." The man said.

"What?" David asked, confused.

"Destroy the things that can link us to the crime." The man repeated, the menacing tone returning.

"Couldn't you just burn it?" David asked, cursing his inability to keep quiet.

"Yes." The man's tone was different; he spoke softly as if afraid to be overheard. "But if I tell them to burn it," he said, leaning close to David "what do we need you for?" He undid one of David's handcuffs and chained him to the leg of the table. "Destroy it." He repeated, and left.

* * *

"Go." It was lucky that he happened to be chained underneath the window that morning. It was the seventh day, a day and a half since he had spent the afternoon pouring random substances onto the evidence and trying to gauge the reactions of his captors, hoping they believed he was doing the job properly. To be honest, by the end of it he wasn't sure what he had done, other than make a lot of pseudoscientific comments loud enough for them to hear. All other thoughts from then until now had been erased by the constant question of what would happen next, if his apparent protector had found a good reason for them not to kill him today. It took him a second to realise that the noise he had just heard was external to his own head, a soft sound permeating through the window and the wall. A comforting, familiar noise.

"Go." He heard it again; slightly louder, like a harsh stage whisper. The next sounds he heard were deafening; a crash and a thud, sharp cracks like lightning snapping in the air. He sunk downwards and covered his head with his arms as best he could, squeezing his eyes shut and huddling next to the metal frame he was chained to. The world seemed suddenly deafeningly alive with sound compared to the silence he had become used to. He wanted it to stop, to recede like the last time he had heard noises this loud, but it seemed to be getting ever closer. He could make out voices under the sounds now, some familiar and some unknown. He wanted to call out to them but his throat seemed to have closed up, choking his voice. A second or two passed and then the door to the room burst inwards, a chunk of wood tearing away and remaining attached to the wall. David lifted his head a fraction and saw a mass of black fabric, resolving itself into a forest of legs heading in his direction. Instinctively he ducked his head down again and remained rigid even as gentle hands began to probe at him.

"Dave." The voice was soft and breaking, more familiar than his own name. He lifted his head again and was caught full in the face by the glare of a flashlight. He flinched and looked away.

"Keys!" The call came from someone in the distance. A second later hands were working near his bound wrist and he heard the click of the handcuff releasing. He was hauled away from the metal shelving and he uncurled involuntarily, his back scraping along the concrete floor. Gloved hands began the feel the edges of his face and he begun to struggle, disorientated.

"Please, please let them help you." The voice came from near his head, the tone almost pleading with him. Gentle hands gripped his shoulders and he relaxed slightly, his brain just beginning to process that this was real. He could catch glimpses of the people around him if he rolled his eyes upwards, but it hurt to do so. One of the hands that had been on his shoulder had moved to his head, stroking his hair comfortingly, the achingly familiar voice muttering a soothing mantra of nonsense in his ear. He relaxed a little further and gave in to the temptation to close his eyes. It was dark again.


	6. Acorns

Chicken Little said the sky was falling. His mother had always told him he was the sweetest, happiest boy in the neighbourhood, even though the tone she said it in changed over the years. It was affectionate at ten when he was still exclusively hers and with recrimination at fifteen when he had started to pull away from her with the unconscious brutality of a teenager. Finally she said it with resignation, when they'd both been forced to admit he was an adult, who made decisions that occasionally lead to beatings and hospital beds. But the truth of it never changed; his grandparents said it too and the mothers of the childhood friends he'd long since lost touch with, even when they saw him walking down the street as a grown man, still waving to him from their front lawns like they had when he was six years old. He'd read a lot of books as a child, from the moment he'd learnt to decipher the words he'd read voraciously and as if, his mother said, he was afraid if he didn't read fast enough the words would disappear. He'd read everything he could get his hands on and some things he probably shouldn't have done. His Grandmother delighted in teaching him to read Norwegian words, watching him form the strange sounds even as his mother looked on with her mild disapproval for the old. For all he read to himself however, he had always loved being read to. Everyone in the family knew he was perfectly capable of reading the story books from cover to cover yet they kept up the pretence of a nightly story, English from his mother and Norwegian from his Grandmother. Even when he could recite the stories under his breath as they were read to him, because it was never really about the words. It was about the sense of someone near him as he fell asleep, of the soothing lilt of a voice by his bedside.

* * *

Sleeping beauty slept for a hundred years. Now he was sitting by a bedside, but his throat had closed up and he didn't honestly think he could speak. David had cleaned up well, after they had got the dust off him. His skin had been thick with it, grimy and oily like he'd been tinkering under a car. Once it was gone they could see that most of the bruises and cuts he must have received in the crash had begun to heal, except the one above his eye. The cut there was inflamed and angry, the swelling just beginning to push his eye closed. They cleaned and dressed it, giving him antibiotics and an I.V. of the non-specific fluids they seemed to hand out like sweets. Salt and water and nutrients Greg knew, a butterfly in his arm feeding him nectar. Now they were just letting him sleep and Greg sat beside him, waiting for him to wake. He wanted it for his own reassurance; even though he knew it was selfish.

* * *

She went to the castle to the east of the sun and west of the moon to rescue the prince. As it turned out, he had never been that far away. Greg had a sneaking, sinking feeling that he might have even driven past the building at some point in the week, although he couldn't be sure. His memories were jumbled and fused with a panic that mired his thoughts, the whole experience infused with an unreal quality that made it bearable. Irrationally he was sure he should have known, should have sensed him and brought him home sooner. His eyes darted to the figure in the bed, still sleeping soundly. He knew that if David had been awake and listening he would have told Greg to stop being stupid, before probably scoffing once again at his absurd belief in some kind of sixth sense. He also knew that regrets were a luxury that he was lucky to have. Just seeing him breathe felt like a luxury at this moment, the regret of not having rescued him sooner was erased, obliterated, by the relief of having him back at all. He would let the memories of the week unravel; he would be content to never fully have them back. There would be enough reality for both of them soon.

* * *

The magic mirror could only ever speak the truth. He opened his eyes first for just a few seconds, blinking owlishly into the room as he tried to focus. Greg smiled at him and he smiled back slowly, ponderously, before his eyes drifted closed and he slept again. The second time he woke was a few hours later, with a violent start that frightened Greg, who was dozing himself.

"Hey, hey, hey." He whispered, leaning towards him, his hands hovering over his body, unsure of where to lay themselves to soothe him best. His confusion was ended when one of David's hands reached out to grasp his, so hard it hurt. David's eyes still darted back and forth across the ceiling, glassy and terrified.

"Hey." Greg said again, apparently unable to say anything else. He leant further over him, into his line of vision. David's eyes slid past him, then returned, the pupils twitching and dilating as he focussed.

"Safe?" He asked, a pitiful edge to his tone that made Greg's heart constrict.

"Safe." Greg replied. He moved his other hand to stroke his cheek but David jerked away, looking towards the wall and then finally back at Greg, the glassy look in his eyes receding and brightness edging back, like sunlight across a mirror.

"I'm sorry." He said softly. Greg held his hand out again, a breath away from his cheek and David turned into it, rubbing his face gently across his palm. He curled himself up into a ball on his side and Greg could feel the warmth of his breath on his hand, dragging out into long even sighs. His hand was numb, the other one ached from being held so tightly, yet he stayed there until he was completely certain he was asleep.

* * *

Dick Whittington returned to be Lord Mayor of London. More people had been to see him than he had been expecting. Greg had known that they could come, but then he had always been a better judge of people than David. More importantly had had seen them when he was gone, seen them work and sweat and worry in a way he doubted David would have ever imagined they would. But then David was never very good with people, like the faerie child his brother had described, and he had spent almost every visit reinforcing that comparison. Grissom had lasted until his own natural compulsion to speak the socially awkward truth had gotten the better of him, Sara had the sense to leave before that happened. Warrick spoke more to Greg but made the effort at least, even if the conversation had degenerated into an argument on the precise method for analysing the paint chips from the car. David had at least looked animated then, sitting up and engaging more than he had done since they'd found him. Of the CSI's, only Nick and Catherine seemed immune to David's particular brand of charm. The techs, who were more used to dealing with him, simply ignored or insulted him in return; seemingly disregarding the situation they were seeing him in. Catherine employed a broadly similar tactic, knowing by instinct that David would respond better to her hard-assed approach than her maternal one. Nick was the only one who confronted the issue head on, charming answers to questions Greg hadn't even dared to ask. His eyes had flicked between the two of them, watching David as he spoke and Greg as he listened. He also stayed longer than the others, talking with Greg once David had fallen asleep, looking at him with earnest eyes and telling him to ask if he needed anything at all. Greg had heard the same entreaty at least eight times that day, but Nick's offer was the first he thought he might take. Finally he left and Greg was alone again with David's sleeping form, the steady rise and fall of his chest highlighted by the white hospital blankets. They said he could take him home tomorrow once the doctor discharged him and Greg was both elated and terrified by the prospect, disturbed by the thoughts of what had been changed by this experience. It seemed too fantastic to hope that things would stay the same, yet as he watched David sleep the permanent feeling of panic in his gut was replaced by the aching comfort of love and familiarity. Maybe everything wouldn't cave in after all; maybe he was giving everyone less credit for strength than he should. Chicken Little said the sky was falling but it was only an acorn. It was only an acorn.


	7. After

The first night after, he had woken suddenly from an exhausted sleep with a jump and a gasp. Greg patted his hair, soothing him back to sleep.

The second night after, Greg was the one who awoke. He lay still in the darkness for a long time with his eyes open, seeing nothing and concentrating in the tingle in his nerves that came just from feeling the warmth of his presence.

The third night after, they had sex mostly for the comfort of the afterglow. They fell asleep wrapped around each other, when the morning came they had separated but it didn't matter, the memory was there.

The fourth night after was the first night of the nightmares. As Greg stroked his damp hair and held him tightly against him, he wondered what had taken them so long to arrive.

The fifth night after, David was asleep before Greg got back from work. He had been with him today, briefly, when he had given a statement about what had happened to him in a voice so calm it frightened Greg. He had explained about the evidence, about the man who had made him useful to keep him alive. He picked out Daniel from the photographs and Greg had the feeling no one quite knew what to think about that. When he crawled in to bed, the heat of David felt more like coming home than stepping through a door ever could.

The sixth night after, there was rain drumming on the windows. It reminded them both, in their own ways, how it had started. They curled into each other and David breathed warm air on Greg's neck, reminding him that he was still alive.

The seventh night after, the crying came like a strong spring flood. Greg wondered if he could have anything left in him when the tears washed so much away. He held him softly, cradling him in his arms like a child, until David quieted and slept. The warmth and weight of him was a feeling of certainty against Greg's chest and he slept content, for the first time daring to hope that it might be over.


End file.
